


in the darkest corner of your dreams

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [19]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Emotional self-harm, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Major spoilers for s5ep1: Whisper in the Dark, laranthir has a puppy because he deserves it, takes place both during current times and personal story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: A further exploration of the commander and Laranthir's relationship.Sequel toears in the walls.
Series: roza [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	in the darkest corner of your dreams

**Author's Note:**

> i hope someone reads this lol

If there is anyone Laranthir has a complete understanding of and yet still marvels at the way he fundamentally differs from, it is Roza.

Take now, for instance. The hollow wood chimes outside his hut clink just loud enough to be heard, signalling that a visitor waits patiently. Yet the act in and of itself is an impatient one. Roza is the only person he knows who would have both the audacity to do it and the disregard to think nothing of it. Laranthir has to wonder if he knows his habit is solely his own.

It is late, as well. Respectable visitors do not come along in the nighttime.

Cailean whines, dancing an uneasy pattern in front of the door. Laranthir murmurs to calm him as he rolls out of his hammock, taking care to move slowly. Still, his back twinges, and he winces. Archery, like any training, demands a painful price for its rewards.

He peels open the door, blocking Cailean with his ankle in case he decides to jump. As expected, Roza stands in front of him, still and quiet. He looks healthier, his cheeks fuller, although perhaps it is because he seems to be trying to muster a smile. It is a partial success—his mouth makes a small curve, but it is more blank than joyful. Laranthir waves him inside, not bothering to play up a pretense of contingent hospitality.

“Good evening.” Roza clasps his hands together. Laranthir glances at them automatically—they are not shaking. “I did not know you had a puppy.”

As if knowing he is being referred to, Cailean pounces in front of him, bowing to play. Roza makes a surprised little sound before tentatively reaching out to pet between his ears. Laranthir barely manages to stifle a smile. He still has that soft spot for animals, then.

“He is about a week old,” he offers in lieu of questioning the purpose of such a late visit. Cailean shoves his face into Roza’s shin, dislodging his hand, and begins to energetically lick the dirt off his boots. “I thought I would give an animal companion a try, and sylvan hounds are amicable and familiar to me. Don’t mind if he nibbles on you—he has a lot of excess energy.”

“I can see that.” Roza successfully manages to give Cailean a full pat on the head, and then straightens up. His wavering smile returns. “I will address the dolyak in the room first—you are doubtless wondering why I am here at such an hour. Well, I have a little something to give you.”

Laranthir bites back the demand of why it couldn’t wait until the morning and considers him, looking him over from branches to boots. He is thin but not skeletal, his presence dark but not oppressive. There are shadows in his eyes, but they are the kind that come from a jaunt into the necromantic arcane rather than the cramped corners of a damaged psyche. He is by no means cheerful, but Laranthir might worry if Roza of all people begins to project such a thing.

He is doing better, then.

Laranthir turns and beckons with an arm, indicating they sit and get comfortable before they speak further. Roza follows him gracefully, sweeping his skirt up before settling himself on a woven basket couch.

Laranthir leaves him there. “I’ll make you something to eat,” he says as he moves past to the kitchen area.

Roza’s head shifts in his periphery. “What? No, Laranthir, that’s not—”

“I know it’s not what you’re here for, but it’s what you are getting regardless. Do not complain.”

There is a frown in Roza’s voice. “Do not put on some pointless façade of hospitality. You are tired and I am here of my own accord—you should not have to make me food.”

Laranthir closes one cupboard and opens another. “Then don't show up at my house hungry.”

A beat of silence that from anyone else would feel guilty. To Roza’s credit, it nearly does for a second, but then he either stifles it or Laranthir is too tired to track the equivalent of a droplet in a pool.

He ends up reheating the leftovers of his supper that he had been saving for the following evening. Roza watches him all the while with a gaze that is far too awake and shrewd to belong to a respectable member of society. Thankfully, he accepts the plate of meat and steamed vegetables Laranthir eventually nudges towards him with nary a word of complaint.

“You are a darling brother,” is what he picks to say instead. “Thank you.”

He is playing around with endearments, is he? He should not—Laranthir’s heart is a soft thing, and it does not deserve to get speared on a verbal whim, especially not from such a person as this. Of course he says nothing, only watches as Roza eats and tries not to let his eyelids fall too heavily.

“What have you come to give me, then?” he asks when enough has been consumed for his satisfaction. If Roza will not finish the rest, Cailean certainly looks ready to. “It is not my birthday yet.”

Roza always buys him flowers. He has a surprisingly cohesive knowledge of them, considering how much he alienates himself from sylvari culture. Laranthir has always attributed it to Dagonet’s influence; what young minds cling to in dark times they often carry through with them for the rest of their life.

"And I didn't get you flowers." Roza dabs at his mouth and sets his cutlery aside. “Very well then, if you are so impatient. Give me a moment.”

Laranthir watches him go through his pack with half curiosity and half uncaring lethargy. He suppose he should be grateful for this interruption, as unforeseen as it is. Cailean’s barking—and Roza’s obtrusive visit, by proxy—had woken him up from a fairly unwelcome dream.

“Here it is. No, sweet thing, it is not for you.” This is said to Cailean, it takes Laranthir an embarrassing few seconds to realize. “I apologize for the slovenliness of the wrappings—I fear I am no artist.”

“Mhm.” Roza’s detached smile means about as much as his words; he always takes pride in his work, no matter how minor or inconsequential. That the bundle he is now pushing across the table looks rather hastily put together speaks volumes louder than any of his platitudes.

Laranthir wonders why he simply does not admit that he is on a tight schedule, or that he plans on going AWOL for another month of moping, or whatever it is that is going on that he is masking out of pride. But he does not speak his mind, instead simply brushes the packaging with his fingers until he finds the string tying it together.

It loosens with a tug. Fibre and leaf wrappings—Roza must truly be in a rush if he bought it all here in the Grove. It is so _careless_ , and for a bright, burning second Laranthir is almost hurt. But the moment passes. It is how Roza is.

The tie comes undone and the leaf falls. Laranthir blinks at the bundle of sticks it reveals, and blinks again, a few more times, when his brain finishes its belated processing. They are not sticks at all, but long, wooden arrows, tipped with—

“Iron?” Laranthir murmurs as he picks one up. He runs his forefinger over its edge, answering his own half-formed question. “No. Mithril. Pale Mother, Roza, these are…”

He glances back up, stopping himself before he finishes his sentence. Roza is watching him with an indecipherably neutral expression, although Laranthir can feel a hint of something like relief. Probably because he didn’t bring up the packaging.

“I know it’s a few days early.” Roza folds his hands together. “But I was in the area, so I thought I might as well drop them off. I am glad you like them.”

He lies so smoothly. Perhaps it helps that he tacks on a bit of truth to his words—Laranthir has no doubt he wants his present to have a positive reception. Is it still pride, he wonders in semi-bitterness, or does he truly care that much?

He is too much of a coward to ask. Besides, he has enough of himself to realize this is too odd a situation to rebuke. One does not simply acquire mithril arrows as a last-minute gift, so how did Roza come by them? He puts the arrow down with its fellows, looks up, and sees Roza’s eyes boring into his, dark and brazen.

“Laranthir,” he says. “I did not just come here to give you this. I…” A hesitation, so unlike him. “I wanted to speak with you.”

There it is. There it _is_. “Ah,” Laranthir says, twisting a smile. He leans back in his chair, and Roza’s black gaze tracks him all the while, not breaking from his. So much daring, no matter his guilt.

“Well tell me, then.” Laranthir spreads his hands in a way that would be facetious if he were ten times more bold. “What are you truly here for?”

~*~

It is not what Roza truly meant to say.

It just… slipped out. He can’t be blamed for it, not really—a sharp tongue is as good a defense as any against gossipmongers and snide comments in Vigil Keep. Laranthir knows this. Surely, then, he knows that even if what Roza said _was_ rude—which it wasn’t—it would be understandable that it came out.

From the look on Laranthir’s face, it isn’t terribly understandable to him. Roza supposes, maybe, fine, that if he had just been told to “either shut up and let the actual fighters do the planning or stop being such a bloody coward,” he may take a moment to recover from his initial offense as well. Perhaps.

“Tactician, if you weren’t such a valuable asset I’d string you across the ramparts for disrespecting a superior officer like that.” Almorra’s gleaming eyes suggest she is motivated to do so regardless. Perhaps foolishly, Roza ignores her for a moment.

“Oh, come off it,” he says to Laranthir, even as he feels himself sink a spade into the ground at his feet. “Don’t tell me you’re going to make a fuss over _that_. You’re even more of a pansy than I thought.”

He regrets the words as soon as they form in his mouth, although he tells himself it is because of their foolishness, not because of the way Laranthir’s brow loosens. Unfortunately, even he cannot turn back the clock by a few seconds, no matter how precious they may be.

“That is _enough_ out of you.” Almorra scowls at him fiercely. “Apologize to him. Immediately.”

Roza’s eyes widen slightly, and he casts an unwitting glance at Laranthir. _I will never force you to apologize_ , he had sworn once, and Roza will never forget it. He has remained true to his word, and although yes, it has lead to a few awkward situations, Roza has since learned to circumvent them. It really it isn’t something that—

“I’m certain you heard me, and I do _not_ repeat myself.” Almorra bares her fangs. “You have ten seconds until I start stripping ranks.”

Laranthir’s head raises at this. “Almorra,” he says in a voice that is subdued enough to make Roza angry, “It’s—”

She bats his outstretched hand away. “ _Now_ , Tactician,” she growls.

Roza’s jaw locks. “I’m sorry,” he forces out stiffly, before the sudden knot of anxious fear in his throat bubbles up to become too large to speak around. He averts his gaze before it meets Laranthir’s, not wanting to see whatever is in it.

“Good. I think that was long overdue.” Almorra crosses her arms. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt considering you’re less than a year old, Tactician, so listen closely: belittlement, snideness, disrespect, and overall bullying is _not_ permitted here. I understand you’ve had bad experiences in the past, and I sympathize. But just because it happened to you doesn’t mean you’re allowed to pass it on to someone else. Laranthir especially has taken you under his wing when he didn’t have to, not to mention he is extraordinarily patient with you and lets you get away with a lot more than I think you realize. Disrespect towards him of any kind will _not_ be tolerated. Is that understood?”

Roza presses his hands together so tightly they hurt. “Understood,” he rasps.

A hot, thick curl of nausea mixed with shame is rising in his throat and he is shaking, shaking, trying his hardest not to shake. He cannot stop staring at the gleam of Almorra’s right bracer, but she doesn’t seem to mind, because he hears only a _Hmph_ before she nods and turns away. Roza digs his nails into his palm, trying to pull himself together.

He avoids looking at either of them directly for the rest of the meeting. Whether they notice or not, they do not call him out for it. He would be grateful were he not a thousand miles away, drifting aimlessly while his hands go numb and his thoughts turn to mush.

~*~

He doesn’t… _bully_ Laranthir.

Does he?

No. Laranthir would tell him if he did. He certainly has no qualms about telling Roza off for anything else he does wrong, whether it is rolling his eyes one too many times to be polite during a meeting or mouthing off to—

Roza’s eyes skitter to the side. He shrinks that thought, balling it up until it is too tiny to be a threat and tossing it away.

 _Laranthir would tell me_ , he says to himself, as convincingly as possible. _Of course he would tell me if I hurt… if I…_

Laranthir’s tight smile flashes in his mind, and then the way he ducks his head, and averts his eyes, and goes quiet too quickly sometimes, and says “It’s alright,” in his soft, special tone when Roza has done _nothing_ —when Roza has not apologized for anything (although it eases him every time, for some reason, and Laranthir’s gentle smile afterwards only ever makes him feel warm).

Perhaps he will… detour to the latrines this evening. Laranthir hasn’t punished him with latrine duty for months—since he had moved into his new room, in fact—but he is beginning to get a niggling suspicion that it isn’t because he never deserved it.

Almorra is right. Laranthir is too kin—too _passive_ —by half. Roza can take the matter of his discipline into his own hands if he will not.

~*~

Much later, when his hands are scrubbed raw and his stomach is moaning in longing for its bi-nightly meal, Roza stands on the threshold of an idiotic decision.

He shouldn’t be here.

He really shouldn’t, because he has a perfectly good room to sleep in that even has a window (which turns out is responsible for an entirely new feeling of something fascinating and grand he has never quite felt before. He had tried to ask Laranthir about it, but the question had summoned one of those tight smiles, so he had quickly dropped it). There is no reason he should be shuffling in these shadows, whether they just so happen to be outside Laranthir’s room or not.

It was silly to assume that Roza would never stumble across where he slept. It is silly also that his presence is comforting enough, even behind a door, that it pulls Roza to itself with the ease of a puppeteer tugging at his strings.

It can do no harm to linger here for a minute or two more. It is not as if Laranthir can know he is here—the Dream is not a _homing_ device, and he lacks Roza’s skills of necromantic espionage. Perhaps Roza may feel a bit more present to him than if he were on the other side of the keep, but he has it on multiple bitter words that he always reeks particularly pungently in the Dream anyways. Laranthir will simply think he is having a nightmare, he thinks wryly, and purses his lips when the thought creases them.

He sinks down to the floor. Just a few more minutes, he thinks, leaning his head against the door. It cannot hurt. His eyes slip shut, and he lets them, not particularly caring about indolence in his weariness. Laranthir’s presence is so constant, so _comforting_ , and after the day he has had…

Roza only realizes he has fallen asleep when his head hits the doorframe with a jarring _crack_. He springs to his feet, mind still thick with sludge. Why is he on the floor? Where is he—oh, thorns, right. Laranthir’s room. Pale Mother is that pathetic. Roza should get going before someone tells him off for being a disturbance.

It really is a testament to his lethargy that he is genuinely surprised when the door creaks open. He stares at it stupidly.

Laranthir stares back. His eyes widen minutely as they taken him in. “Roza?” he asks, voice soft with confusion.

It is the first word they have exchanged directly since that morning. Inexplicable shame rushes back to Roza in a tidal wave. He has no right to be here, leeching comfort he has not earned and in the middle of the night of all times. What—it is not like he and Laranthir are _friends_ , surely not, and he was only ever a fool for having thought so. Laranthir has friends already, Roza has seen him with them: laughing, talking, smiling. He doubts a friend would ever be as hostile as he is. They are supposed to invoke joy, not whatever the hell Roza causes.

So what is he? Not a friend, not an enemy. A problem?

 _Grand Warmaster’s pet_ , people still whisper. Pets need to be trained to behave, and Laranthir is here to train him, he made that clear on day one. Roza doesn’t know why the thought hurts so badly right now. Everything will go back to normal tomorrow and he is aware he is overreacting, and oh does it still ache to stand here and know he is owed nothing.

Certainly not kindness.

“I’m,” he begins, fully intending to finish with, _sorry to disturb you at such a late hour_ , but the words stick in his throat. He can only continue to stare, mind frozen, while his breaths come faster and faster in his chest.

Laranthir’s expression starts to shift, and the jolt of fear—of rejection, of beratement—it causes is enough to make Roza unstick himself. He looks away before he sees what it turns into, and when he realizes he has managed that, takes a hasty step backwards.

He turns and flees. It is not his proudest nor his most graceful moment, but it is an escape from the one before. He hears Laranthir call his name and he ignores it, already running full-pelt down the hallway. He crushes his half-formed impression of what he sounds like, too—alarmed, angry?—in his fist, grinding it until it is indeterminate dust.

~*~

The unfortunate thing about living in the same castle as someone, let alone having to meet with them every other day, is that it makes it very hard to avoid them.

Roza spots Laranthir the next morning as early as breakfast. Given that he had planned to stay out of eyesight until their meeting that evening, it does not bode well for the rest of the day. What is Laranthir doing in the mess hall, anyways? He never eats here unless it is with friends, and he appears to be alone.

Roza purposefully takes his time getting his food, ignoring the irritated calls of his fellow soldiers in line. It is only when he sees Laranthir leaving to go seat himself that he lets his final spoonful of sludge plop into his bowl. He watches Laranthir sit down at one of the empty tables, then heads to the one that is farthest away from him. He is keen on putting as much distance between them as possible.

“Did you hear about what happened yesterday?” a voice whispers, distant and obscured, when he is partway through his meal. “Got his ass handed to him by the general herself.”

Roza shoves a spoonful of sludge into his mouth with a scowl. He is _within earshot_. Can’t they keep their yammering maws shut for five minutes?

He notices Laranthir glancing around with a small frown (not that Roza is watching him surreptitiously, because he is not). After a few minutes he gets up, leaving his food behind. Roza busies himself with studying the details of the wood grain in his table, hoping he is beneath notice. After a beat passes and no one approaches him, he sinks his senses into the shadows.

Laranthir is easy to root out. _… actician Roza?_ he asks.

Oh, Pale Mother. Roza slouches in his seat as a group of soldiers nearby stutter out an awkward confirmation.

_I would appreciate if the matter of his affairs with myself and the general remained private, gentlemen. It does little good to our reputation as an honourable organization to gossip like children, don’t you think?_

Roza blinks at his goop, not expecting that. Laranthir is… defending him?

 _O-of course, Grand Warmaster! Sorry, Sir,_ someone says hurriedly.

_No harm done yet. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?_

_Yes, Sir! Sorry again, Sir._

Roza starts to withdraw his hearing. His cheeks warm; that was unexpected. Perhaps Laranthir simply takes pride in—

_Although for what it’s worth, all Roza is doing is working himself towards a promotion at breakneck speed. I’d say he is setting quite an impressive example for the rest of you._

Roza hears an embarrassed squeak, and slaps a hand over his mouth when he realizes it came from himself. His face has gone hot. That is—well—he…

He shovels another spoonful of gruel down his throat, barely minding that he nearly chokes on it. Laranthir moves in his periphery, and Roza determinedly avoids his gaze, but he only returns to his table.

Pale Mother’s petalled tresses, but Roza has no idea what to think now. Did Laranthir spot him? He must have. But he had no way of knowing he could be overheard. Why would he have…?

Roza quickly finishes the rest of his meal. He has all day to dwell on this incident. And although he still dreads their evening meeting, perhaps the thought does not sit as heavily as it had five minutes prior.

~*~

Roza raps on the heavy wooden door, heart in his throat. “Enter,” Laranthir calls, and he obeys. He salutes, then drifts over to his chair, avoiding eye contact all the while. He is praying against all hope that Laranthir won’t bring up anything that happened the day before.

He hears Laranthir draw in a breath, then let it out. He stares determinedly down at his skirt.

“Roza.”

Roza looks up. Laranthir’s eyes are heavy with a million unsaid words. They hold his for a long, arduous moment. Roza’s breathing slows to a halt.

Laranthir’s gaze flicks away to a paper on his desk. “I have a mission report I want to go over with you.”

The relief that floods Roza is so immense it is nearly painful. His shoulders slump and he nods, letting himself breathe again. He misses the way Laranthir glances back at him, how his eyelids fall before he clears his throat and pulls the report up.

The hour passes with Roza helping him with bureaucratic matters. It is almost enough to take his mind off things. Apparently Almorra doesn’t like doing this half of her job, which nearly makes him smile before he remembers the way she had glared at him the day before. Time goes by. There are two untouched plates of food sitting at the corner of Laranthir’s desk, but neither of them mention it. The sun slowly sets.

Finally, Laranthir shuffles his papers and gives him a crooked smile. “That resolves the last of these matters. Thank you for your help.”

Roza nods awkwardly. If he has been more quiet than he usually is, it is nothing to mind. Laranthir probably appreciates the change, anyway. He is always saying how Roza is too nasty, too cruel—and although he doesn’t use those exact words, and sometimes he almost appears to hide a smile at the comment in question, Roza knows he is just being nice. It is just who he is—look at him now. Too nice to be sincere.

Roza wonder how often he has wished to rescind the “no apology” thing. Probably often. He tugs his sleeves over his hands, shame making him self-conscious.

“You have blisters on your hands,” Laranthir murmurs absently.

Roza glances up. Laranthir closes his mouth in something like surprise, apparently having voiced the observation on impulse. Roza looks back to his hands, which are indeed peeling with small, scratchy blisters. He picks at a loose flake of white bark until it comes off.

“Don’t do that. Ah—here.” Laranthir sits up and reaches over his desk. He takes Roza’s hands in his own—they are warm, alive, secure—and presses gently. Roza feels life surge into his palms. When Laranthir’s gentle grip loosens and leaves, his bark is smooth again.

His mouth parts. “Ih,” he says senselessly, then after a hesitation, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Roza bites at the inside of his mouth. Of course what? Of course he should say thank you? Of course Laranthir would do something kind even if he was never asked to, because that is just who he is, and Roza should feel even worse about how he spoke to him? How he speaks to him consistently? Almorra was right. Roza has no right to behave the way he does. It is no wonder everyone in the keep hates him. It is all but a miracle that _Laranthir_ doesn’t.

He doesn’t, does he?

His head drops further. Laranthir says, “There is cream in the menders’ quarters. I can get some for you next time I stop by, if you like.”

“No. Um.” Roza clears his throat. “It’s alright. I can fetch it myself.”

“Oh. Alright.”

Roza scrapes his palm with his nail on impulse, although there is nothing for it to catch on anymore. His finger scratches out a thin, pale golden indent.

“We’re hosting a moot next week.” Laranthir’s voice lifts, becoming more confident. Roza glances back up. “We are having some norn dignitaries—well.” He chuckles and makes a hand gesture to correct himself. “‘Norn’ and ‘dignitary’ do not go together. Rather, we are expecting a visit from an influential chieftain, so we are planning a moot to hopefully curry his favour. You used to live with the norn for a time, did you not?”

Just a few weeks. “Yes,” Roza says.

After an awkward pause in which Laranthir seems to expect him to elaborate and he does not, Laranthir prompts, “You could be a valuable social asset.”

Roza winces. “I do not think I will be much help in that regard. Diplomacy isn’t exactly my strong suit, hah.” He aims an insincere smile at the desk. Laranthir doesn’t return it. “Apologies.”

“Well, you know more than I do.” Now Laranthir does smile, although it is small, and rings as falsely as Roza’s. “Maybe you can keep me from making a fool out of myself because of some cultural blunder.”

Roza looks at the food that they have not yet touched. Meat, mashed potatoes, and assorted stringed vegetables. He is hungry—he only ever eats dinner when it is with Laranthir. “It really has been quite a while. Ah… Jhavi Jorasdottir is familiar to you, is she not? She would be a much greater help than I.”

“… Right. Jhavi.”

Silence falls again. Roza looks anywhere but at Laranthir.

He hears a sigh. “Look, I… What I meant to say is that I think you should go for your own sake. I know you have your books and poems to keep you entertained, but they will always be there the next day. You deserve to have some fun.”

That cuts to the quick. _Deserve_. Roza does not _deserve_ anything. No one will actually want him there, he thinks bitterly, least of all the other sylvari. Laranthir will probably feel obligated to babysit him the entire time simply to ensure he doesn’t tread on any toes, and he is better off without being weighed down. If anyone deserve to relax, it is he.

“I disagree,” Roza mutters. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’ll stay in my room, out of everyone’s way.”

Laranthir frowns faintly. “If you do not want to go, I will not force you to,” he says. “But please consider it. I think it will be good for you.”

Roza is most certainly not going. He only nods, blinking to cool his warm eyes.

Laranthir leans across his desk. His hand enters Roza’s vision and curls under his chin, gently tipping it up to study him. Roza looks at him obligingly, keeping his face blank.

He doesn’t expect Laranthir’s next question. “Why were your hands raw?” he asks. “What were you doing last night?”

“U-um. I was cleaning the latrines.” Roza averts his eyes, momentarily caught unawares.

“What?” Laranthir’s hand leaves his chin, and he tries not to mourn its gentle grip. “That is not right. I assigned you no such duty.”

“You didn’t.” Roza tries not to fidget. It would be ironic if this actually put him _back_ on latrine duty. Ah, the good old days.

Laranthir’s frown deepens. “Then who told you to do it? Everything you do goes in your roster, which I have full access to. I should have been informed.”

Roza suppresses a wince. “No one did. I took the initiative.”

“You took the…” Laranthir’s expression clears with startling speed. Roza presses his hands together.

“Roza.” This time he does wince.

“I think we need to talk,” Laranthir continues, and Roza’s stomach plummets. “There—see? That. I can _feel_ that, Roza. I can feel nearly everything you feel, just as I am sure you can with me. Usually, out of courtesy, I do not bring up your emotional state. It is considered rude in our culture, I will inform you in case you do not know. But it has gotten drastically worse within the past twenty-four hours, and I feel as if I must intervene.”

Roza doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” he settles on, directing his words firmly to the floor. That is all he can do: apologize and pay his penance.

“You shouldn’t have to be.” Laranthir’s voice gentles. “All I want to do is talk about how you are feeling.”

Roza swallows nervously. He can already feel the looseness creeping into his fingers, making them weak and distant.

“No, not condemn it, Roza. Just talk.”

Roza looks up. Laranthir smiles at him, and his vision unexpectedly blurs. He quickly blinks it clear, ashamed.

“It’s alright, whatever reaction you have to this conversation.” Laranthir’s voice is low and kind. “It is perfectly natural. Healthy, in fact. Suppressing your emotions is only ever going to make them worse.”

Roza magically cools himself anyways. Natural, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean it is not humiliating.

“I’m going to take these past two minutes of complete silence on your end as confirmation that we can proceed. Why don’t you start by telling me what you were doing outside my room last night?”

Shit.

“It was an accident,” Roza tries. “I should not have, I know. I did not mean to linger, and I apologize for waking you.”

Something in Laranthir’s eyes softens. “It is not a crime to walk in the halls,” he says. “As for waking me, that was because you hit your head, did you not? You have a rather large bruise.”

Caught flat-footed by his line of questioning, Roza only nods.

“That’s what I thought. Is it alright? No concussion?”

Roza nods again.

“That is good.” Laranthir gives him a small smile. “I’m glad you’re not hurt. So tell me: what were you doing there?”

Roza swallows dryly. “I… just wanted to sit near you for a few minutes. I did not mean to fall asleep. I will not do it again.”

He can take a detour next time. He wonders how strongly Laranthir can sense him; should he try to Silence himself again?

Laranthir gives him a pointed look. “That is not where I was going with this. Next time, knock. Sitting outside on the floor, reeking of filth and sadness, honestly…” He shakes his head. “I would have let you in.”

Roza is once more at a temporary loss for words, although his thoughts are reeling. He chooses, valiantly, to say nothing again.

“Now about what happened ye—"

“You are too kind,” Roza chokes out. “You are too kind to me by half. You have friends—those who _deserve_ you—who do not mistreat you. But instead of being with them, you are stuck with _me_. I am your responsibility because you do not know how to reject something that needs help, irrespective of the damage it does to you! You should spend your kindness on the people you care about.”

He draws in a wet breath, and lets it out unevenly. “Not me.”

A weighty silence hangs in the air as they both digest what he has just said. He himself is somewhat surprised, but only vaguely. Because yes, it is true, and he means every word. If compassion were a weakness, it would be Laranthir’s greatest one.

“Well.” Laranthir’s eyes are heavy. “I knew this would happen at some point.”

Roza tries not to flinch. Whatever speech he is preparing is unnecessary, he wants to beseech. It is not as if he does not _know_ his place, because he does. But Laranthir does not have to lay the truth out in front of them as he is prone to doing, bare and vulnerable as this one is. Roza cannot…

“Which luckily means that I am prepared for it. Roza, look at me.”

Roza considers stalling for a fleeting moment, but he knows by now that Laranthir’s patience is as endless as the ocean. He drags his eyes upwards.

“Good. Now let me make this clear: Yes, you made a mistake. Yes, this particular one was directed at me, and no, it wasn’t pleasant to be on the receiving end.”

Roza flinches. “Yes, Sir,” he rasps.

“Don’t give me that. I am not here to rebuke you. Almorra already did that, and although she was in my opinion a little harsh—she should not have threatened you, however empty it was—she was thorough, and she was fair. So you made a mistake, but so does everyone. Do you think I was never on the receiving end of a similar lecture?”

Roza stares at him. “Not you.”

Laranthir quirks a wry smile. “Even I had my headstrong days. It is also my job, I will have you know, to keep Almorra in _her_ place. Yet we are still great friends. Do you know why that is?”

“Because you’re not an awful person,” Roza mumbles.

“Wrong. Because our mistakes do not define us. And they especially do not define our value. Do you think I care about you less now than I did two days ago?”

That hits a spot Roza hadn’t even known was raw. Unbidden, his mouth creases, and he looks away again.

“Oh,” Laranthir says softly. “Roza.”

Roza covers his face with his hands, keen to lesson his humiliation as much as he can. He hears Laranthir’s chair scrape against the floor, and a few seconds later, another pair of hands are gently prying his own apart. He allows them, not having the willpower to shove them away.

“You are easily the highlight of my evenings,” Laranthir says, low and sincere. He is kneeling down in front of him, at eye level with his waist. “I do not know what you tell yourself, but hear the truth from me: I have grown to love you dearly. Do you understand? You are family. No amount of offense you cause will ever change that. No amount of anger, or pride, or hurt will change that. Those things come and go. This?” He squeezes Roza’s hands. “Does not.”

Roza wipes his eyes on his upper arm. He only nods, overwhelmed. _Love_. Laranthir had said _love_. That is not something Roza fully understands; it is a new concept, strange in its distance to him if not in its inconsistent portrayals. He wishes he knew what it truly meant.

“That also means that you do not have to lock yourself in your room and lie beneath your bed frame all day dreading any chance encounter with me,” Laranthir adds dryly. “Or avoid me at breakfast like I have rot. What do you think I am going to do, hm? Throw porridge at you?”

A wet sound that is almost a laugh escapes Roza’s throat. “You might,” he mutters, sniffling discreetly.

“I’d probably miss.” Laranthir’s voice tips. “My aim is terrible—the bow is just for show.”

Roza laughs again, because that is an awful joke. Laranthir watches him, and when his humour dies, gives his hands one last gentle squeeze before releasing them.

“I apologize if I have overstepped.” He stands and goes back to his seat. “Although I do not think you realize just how much we…”

He trails off, studying Roza with thoughtful eyes. Roza shakes his head at the apology.

“You are just like that,” he defends. As much as he avoids physical contact with other people like the plague, Laranthir seems naturally drawn to it. Roza will admit he is eager to… indulge him at times. It is probably good for his health, or something. Laranthir’s health. That is.

Laranthir huffs out an amused breath. “Why did you seek me out last night, again?” he asks.

Roza shifts uncomfortably. What of that? “I did not. You were just there.”

“And you stayed because…?” Laranthir prompts.

Roza scowls at him on impulse. “Because I wanted to! Do not ask me inane questions.”

For some reason that summons a laugh. Roza’s cheeks heat in offense and not a little embarrassment. What has he done to warrant such a reaction?

“I knew it,” Laranthir says with an idiotic grin. “I knew you would turn into this type of person. Oh, by the Pale Tree…”

“Talking nonsense is the first sign of madness,” Roza says aggressively. Laranthir starts to laugh again.

“I attract them like flies to a dung pile.” He wipes at his eyes, which Roza thinks is perhaps an unnecessary exaggeration. “Sorry, sorry. Anyway, I think now is a good time to acknowledge that you have not yet touched your food, Roza. You can keep glowering at me all you like, but at least do not do so on an empty stomach.”

Roza pushes a plate towards Laranthir before he even considers the other one. For some reason, this earns him a quick, badly-suppressed smile, but he graciously chooses to ignore it.

They eat in room-temperature but contented silence for a few minutes. In the middle of their meal, Roza remembers something he had forgotten to ask earlier.

“Laranthir.”

“Mm?”

“Are we friends?”

He derives some small pleasure in the way Laranthir chokes on a string bean. Perhaps the added snickering is a bit rude, but what is it those empty-headed bulbs at the Grove say? Ah yes: a briar for a nettle.

He smiles smugly.

~*~

“… and then I thought, well, I have no idea how plumbing systems work. I might as well ask the norn down in the village to help me set it up so I’m not bathing in only cold water. They told me it would take a few days, so I’ve been hopping around Tyria since then.”

Laranthir rubs at his eyes tiredly. He mentally adds _visit the baths_ _with Roza_ to his list of obligations for the next morning.

Apparently, the commander is prone to answering extremely pointed and admittedly somewhat cantankerous questions in the most vague and unhelpful way possible. Laranthir now knows, in detail, just how badly he is adapting to a mundane routine despite his very best efforts. He seems to be unaware of a few basic things, like “flowers usually do not grow in tundra,” and “you might want to keep track of the date if you’re going to make appointments with people,” and “centuries of arcane knowledge are not going to help you unclog your sink.”

The last dregs of his bitterness from earlier have all but drained away. Roza may be rude and a little incognisant of the needs of others, but he does care, deep (deep, _deep_ ) down. Laranthir hasn’t missed the odd pauses in his speech, as if he is rambling on specifically for his benefit and is running out of things to talk about. Why he thinks Laranthir wants to know the details of his domestic failures is beyond him (although he will admit they are a little entertaining). Perhaps it is partly selfish after all, insofar it helps keep his mind off of things.

Laranthir does not mind. It is hard sometimes, when he looks at Roza, to see anything other than the quiet, traumatized sapling who joined a military organization at far too young an age. He has long since accepted that a part of him will always hold onto the position of responsibility he assigned himself all those years ago.

(Sometimes, guilt worms its way past his defenses and drenches his heart with its oily weight. He could have done more, he thinks. He _should_ have. Muirne is trying to get him to let go of that line of thinking, but to be honest it is Roza himself who has helped the most. Sometimes simple, guileless love is the easiest remedy for a heavy heart.)

“Which of course means that… Laranthir, are you listening? Please try to pay attention.” Roza clears his throat. If Laranthir knew him any less, he would have believed that the action is one of haughtiness rather than uncertainty.

“Apologies.” Laranthir borrows a word from his lexicon. He pets between the ears of a sleeping Cailean, whose head is on his lap, and gets no response. “You were saying about your, ah…” He picks at random. “Bathtub?”

Roza’s eyes narrow slightly. “I… Sure, yes. More or less. Fine, then—you are nosy and a bother of a romantic. Would you like to hear about the time Trahearne and I snuck out at night to look at the stars together?”

That gets Laranthir’s attention. Roza never volunteers the details of his personal relationships (contrarily, he defends them with particularly sharp teeth). “Ooh, yes. Do not spare me any details.”

“Hah.” Roza smiles faintly. “I knew that would prick your ears. Listen closely, because I am not going to repeat anything. One night at Fort Trinity, I found myself unable to sleep…”

His voice is low and smooth and he weaves the tale intricately, years of obsession over poetic voice and flowery language serving him well. One night, long ago, he had found himself plagued by violent dreams. He had left his room and sought out Trahearne, whom he had found sleeping dreamlessly. Nevertheless, he had been willing to keep Roza company. Laranthir perhaps coos over this part of the story, especially when Roza improvises dialogue, so he rolls his eyes and moves past it quickly. They had climbed up to the top of Fort Trinity’s highest tower, armed with thick blankets and the comfort of each other’s presence. There they had sat together, huddling close, and watched the stars until Roza had fallen asleep.

“The next morning, I woke up in my bed.” Roza’s lips quirk to the side. “I can only assume he carried me back. He didn’t get spotted if he did, because there was nary a word of gossip about it afterwards.”

Laranthir puts his hand over his mouth. “That is so romantic,” he says. “He _carried_ you. He cradled you in his arms.”

“Yes, yes. I mean, probably not. I was unconscious—it doesn’t even matter.” Roza rolls his eyes to the leafy ceiling. “Anyway, there you have your little love story. A snippet of it, at least, when both of its characters were still alive.”

He bows his head, going quiet. Laranthir does as well, out of respect and solidarity. They sit in silence for a long, drawn-out moment.

“Roza?” Laranthir asks softly. “How did you deal with Trahearne’s death?”

Roza looks at him. His eyes seem impossibly darker even in the moonlight, slitted openings to an endless abyss. His magic is at its comfortable peak in the nighttime, greedily winding its presence into the shadows and the corners of the Dream. Laranthir wonders how long it has been subtly soothing him.

“Afterwards,” he continues, the words beginning to tumble out at a pace he cannot stop. Roza knows death. He is intimately familiar with it: its form, its grief, its harm. “How did you learn to handle the pain? How did you breathe again when it hurt? How did you stop…” He presses the heel of his hand to his eye until his vision sparks. “Seeing him in every word, in every soldier, around every corner? How did you stop waiting for him to—to come and eat with you, or to drop by just to keep you company? How long until you stopped expecting to hear his laugh? How…”

Cold fingers close around his wrist, and he stops. A cool trickle down his cheek and the sight of Roza shifting into crystals tells him his eyes are wet, and the fibrous stickiness in his throat tells him his voice is dangerously close to tearing.

Roza’s face shifts into something that from anyone else would resemble sympathy. “I am sorry,” he says. His thumb brushes over Laranthir’s cheek, light and cool.

He opens his mouth. “You did not do anything,” comes out hoarsely.

White teeth flash. “For that too.” Before Laranthir can protest that that is not what he meant, Roza continues, “I am sorry because it does not get any easier. It has been years, Laranthir. Sometimes the grief hits me so hard I feel as if I cannot breathe for hours. And for a long time at first it was… _horrible_. It was awful. I could not stop thinking about him, stop seeing him in everything, as you said. I hated that everyone around me wanted me to move on so quickly.”

Laranthir remembers that. Roza had been pulsing pain and anger with his every breath for seemingly a short eternity before it had even begun to die down. And then, when he had come back after his long, inexplicable absence… nothing. That is how Roza feels. Either deeply, painfully, or not at all.

“Do not try to recover like I did.” More teeth. “By pushing everyone away and snapping at the heels of the ones who remained despite it all until they leave as well. I am sorry for that too, by the way.”

Laranthir had always understood. “You were grieving,” he says. Roza smiles sadly, and it prompts a fresh wave of tears. Why is this tenderness here, in something like him? Laranthir should not feel as if the yawning hole in his chest is being stretched even wider.

“Perhaps I can offer some comfort, my darling brother.” There is that endearment again. Laranthir closes his eyes, because he feels as if it is the only way he can keep the threads of himself together.

“Know this,” Roza continues. “She still exists, somewhere out in the universe. She is probably thinking about you too, wondering how you are doing. She still loves you.”

Laranthir chokes out a sob. He hears a whisper of a noise, and then a cold hand is cradling his jaw.

“ _Hush,”_ Roza murmurs. “The dead are with us always. In our minds, in our memories, in our dreams. Across an eternity of time and space, they treasure us as we do them. They have lost us too.”

 _In our dreams._ The words relight a thought that had been struck when Roza had been telling his story. Laranthir opens his eyes.

“Tell me the truth,” he says in some voice that is half a ghost and half alive. Roza’s mouth curves, an unspoken, _I can't promise, but I will try_.

“You didn’t come here to give me the arrows, did you?” Laranthir asks. The words feel heavy, but they are not an accusation. Just… a guess.

Roza gives him a short half-smile that is all the confirmation he needs. “No. They were simply back-up in case I couldn’t come up with an excuse. Of course, I blurted it out on impulse, which was, ah, not my most shining star moment, I must admit. Thankfully, you were already sleep-deprived and did not notice.”

Laranthir’s eyes slip shut once more. He does not notice a staggering amount.

“You came because I was having a nightmare.” A statement of a question.

“Yes.” And its simple, honest truth.

“You felt it… from where? Not the Shiverpeaks, surely.”

“I was in the area because I had an appointment with Muirne.” This is news to Laranthir. He glances up to Roza’s slightly self-conscious smile. “I was about to leave, but then I remembered you, and, well.” He shrugs. “Force of habit.”

Laranthir wonders if he knows by now that it is not, in fact, normal for sylvari to be able to sense if someone else is having a bad dream. He remembers Trahearne pulling him aside, years ago, to tell him about this particular habit of Roza’s. _An extension of his magic_ , he had said. _It is not strictly necromancy, which means I don’t entirely understand how it works, but it is second nature to him. So if he comes into your room in the middle of the night for seemingly no other reason than to wake you up, that is why_. It is a pity it took Laranthir this long to connect those dots.

“It is a habit I should be grateful for, I suppose,” he says with the best he can make of a smile.

Roza’s impassiveness breaks for a second as a quick frown knots his brow, then disappears. “No,” he says. “Not just a habit.”

It is too late to try and decipher his word games. Laranthir is about to sigh and ask him what in Pale Mother’s name he means now, but Roza holds up a hand, stopping him.

“I visited you,” he enunciates, “because you have always been a comfort to me. I wanted you to feel…” The frown returns, for longer.

He reaches out and taps Laranthir on the cheekbone, as if verifying he still has his attention. He waits obligingly.

Roza says, “I do love you very much, you know.”

Laranthir’s throat closes. As if that wasn’t enough, Roza continues, “You are one of the most important people in my life, and you always have been. I consider you closer family than anyone else. Now I will say something, and you will listen and not object.”

He pauses with a meaningful look. Laranthir nods, swiping at his eyes. He can stay quiet.

“I wish I were beautiful. That my soul was unscarred. I wish it didn’t have these deep gashes, so I could look at myself and see a beautiful thing that is easy to love. But you have always looked at me so… warmly. Perhaps you look at others like that and it is nothing to you, but you are unique in doing so to me. I do not summon warmth in people, Laranthir.” He smiles, small and private. “Not like that.”

“You are easy to love.” Laranthir breaks his vow of silence with an embarrassing croak.

“Oh, hush.” Roza taps his lips playfully. “We both know that is a lie. _You_ are easy to love, Laranthir. You are strong, and brave, and far too kind for your own good. Look at Cailean; even he loves you, and he barely even knows you yet. Although I suppose that’s why he was cheap.”

Laranthir rolls his eyes fondly. “Don’t be a prick,” he mutters.

Roza snorts. Laranthir suppresses a bubble of what may very well emerge as hysteric laughter, because just then Cailean—perhaps drawn out of his doggy dreams by the sound of his name—stirs. However, it is just to wiggle his nose further into Laranthir’s hand. Two seconds later, he goes still again.

“Oh,” Roza says in a careless undertone. “How precious.”

He is only saying it because he knows no one will believe Laranthir if he tells them. He shakes his head to himself. He really knows how to catch them.

“One more question,” he murmurs. He can feel his drowsiness, stayed by Roza’s visit, slowly creeping back. He wonders how much of it is his doing. “And then we can go to sleep.”

Roza ducks his head. “Ask.”

It is discourteous. Rude, possibly even cruel. _Ask,_ Roza says, as if he will answer any question Laranthir wishes to know the answer to. He asks, “Do you ever wonder what you would have been like? Without… everything.”

 _Everything_. He does not have to elaborate.

“Yes,” Roza says simply. “Excessively often.”

Laranthir pauses for the length of a tired breath. “And?” he prompts after it fades.

“Would you have wanted to care for an unbroken thing?” Roza asks.

Ha.

“Ha,” Laranthir says. Roza grins at him, baring his teeth, but it is a friendly showing of knives. A briar for a nettle.

“Alright, that is enough chatter for this unlawful hour.” Laranthir stretches, jostling Cailean from his slumber as gently as he can. He starts, utterly confused, then settles and gives him an affectionate lick on the hand. Laranthir carefully hoists him into his arms.

“I bought a bed because you kept complaining about my hammocks,” he says as he slowly meanders to the bedroom. Roza follows behind him, cloaked in shadow. “I thought I would act pre-emptively this time. I have no desire to be the victim of more of your petty intimidation tactics.”

“I’m not petty,” Roza mutters.

Roza is the pettiest person Laranthir knows. “Right,” he says. “Anyway, the blanket is plenty long enough for two people, so do not hog it. I remember how you get.”

“Your memory is failing you in your old age.” Cold fingers press to the bend of his elbow. Roza’s voice, when it returns, is right next to his ear. “Laranthir. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Laranthir says sincerely. “I cannot say how this night would have gone without your presence. But I know that you made it infinitely better.”

And the lips that press to his cheek are smiling.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> that's it! as always I would love to hear your thoughts <3
> 
> this one's song is music of the night. i couldn't find a fitting enough cover on youtube since it's a bit overdone but the part in lindsey stirling's _phantom_ medley is very lovely!!


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